


Perception

by coolbyrne



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 22:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20433431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbyrne/pseuds/coolbyrne
Summary: A case troubles Gibbs, and with Jack dealing with her own issues in California, he finds a kind of guidance in an unexpected place. Lead-in to Slibbs





	Perception

**Author's Note:**

> The whole purpose of this fic was to get Jack to give Gibbs a Rorschach print! Somehow, it became this rambling thing. :) There will likely be an epilogue to this story, so stay tuned.

Over 20 years he had seen a lot of cases. Some of them took an instant to solve; a look, a word, and it was over quicker than the life had left the victim. Others took time; the trees obscuring the forest, the tiny pieces not quite falling into place. Those took an equal measure of patience and aggression, of action and feeling. 

He wasn’t having much patience nor feeling at the moment.

He had sent the team home, having ridden them hard over the last 2 days and recognizing the breaking point was imminent when Bishop had blurted out an exasperated, “Dad, I can’t!” when he had asked her to check the phone records one more time. She was so tired, she barely had the energy to look mortified, though she shot Torres a good stare when he snorted at her slip. 

Gibbs told them to check in the next day, but to take it off and come back fresh the following day. He, of course, had stayed behind, keeping company with the quiet office and the clock that read 11:47. His chair reclined and he closed his eyes, thinking of the case, thinking of his team, thinking of _her_.

“Hey!”

The intentionally loud greeting nearly made him topple in the chair. Holding his hands out to brace himself, he righted the chair and glared at the visitor.

“Grace.”

“What are you doing here, Popeye?” She took up residence on the corner of his desk.

His eyes flicked to the clock, then to her. “I work here.”

His sarcastic tone rolled off her back, but she gave him the answer it asked. “Leon needed some parental pep talk. Kayla’s met a boy at Georgetown. Dad doesn’t know how to take it without being a Neanderthal. I’m sure you have an inkling what that might be like.” She saw the barest flinch in the corner of his eyes and she softened her response. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

He brushed away the apology. “You were focusing more on the Neanderthal part and less on the daughter bit.”

“Yes,” she said with a teasing smile that came from knowing he didn’t take it the wrong way. “So what are you doing here? Don’t you have a boat to work on? A psychologist to woo?”

He held her gaze, a visual game of chicken, but he knew better than to try it with Grace. Either tired from the case or tired from the denial, he shrugged. “She’s in California.”

Grace’s eyebrows rose at his reveal. “You volunteered that information? Wow.”

“You seem surprised.”

“I am,” she admitted. “Didn’t actually think our sessions were working.”

“But you charge me anyway.”

She blew out a dismissive breath. “Please. The company pays for it, which helps pay for the bourbon I give you every Christmas.” 

He tilted his head back and forth, contemplating the benefits.

“What’s she doing in California?”

He shook his head. “Dunno. Something about a friend needing help.”

There was something in his voice- a rare glimpse of something deeper- that she heard but chose to put aside for the moment.

“And how long’s she been gone?”

_Three days, fourteen hours and eight minutes._ “Three days.”

“When does she get back?”

“Jesus, Grace, do I look like her secretary?”

Grace smirked at the image. “I believe these days it’s called ‘executive assistant’.” 

He grunted his response.

“So let me ask you something you do know, or at least, will confess to knowing- what’s keeping you here?”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “Tryin’ to figure out this case.”

“Okay, but what I really meant was, why are you down here?” Seeing his frown, she said, “Her door’s always open. Go up there. Have a walk around. Maybe you’ll pick up something.”

“Like osmosis?”

“Oooh, look at you with the big words at midnight. But yes, like osmosis. If nothing else, you’re not the only one who got a bottle of overpriced bourbon for Christmas. You can investigate where she’s hiding it, because she won’t tell me.”

“Maybe you should buy your own bottle so you stop botherin’ the two of us.”

Her mouth twitched. “Is there a ‘two of us’?” His clenched jaw made her laugh. “What? I’m just trying to save on Christmas gifts. Two birds, one bourbon.”

Rather than answer the question, he gave one of his own. “Don’t you have somewhere to be at this time of night?”

Her sigh was deep and final. “And here I thought we had a breakthrough. Like you were just about to tell me you’re a little worried about her going back to California, like maybe she’ll realize what she’s been missing. Hmmm.” Her eyes caught his and saw a glimmer of the truth he had so carefully hidden. But she knew pressing him on the issue would only make him bury it deeper. Flicking out her wrist, she looked at her watch. “I have 4 minutes before my carriage turns back into a pumpkin. Say nothing about brooms,” she warned him as his mouth opened for a rebuttal. Sliding off his desk, she patted his cheek and said, “She’ll be back. She likes Tobias too much.”

“A broom’s lookin’ more and more likely, Grace.”

“I’m going, I’m going. But remember what I said.”

He waited until he heard the elevator door close before he turned his gaze upstairs.

…..

Just as Grace had said, the door was unlocked, inviting him in. Despite the office being empty, he stepped in quietly, closing the door behind him. The first thing that greeted him was her scent, some kind of perfume he suspected she got from a shop tucked somewhere in Cady’s Alley. Or maybe the uniqueness was in the wearer, not the supplier. His shoulders pushed off the door and his eyes and feet went right to the cabinet across the room. He had been tempted by it every time he had visited the office, but a part of him felt he’d be overstepping by examining it when she was there. It was clearly something that was dear to her and he wasn’t sure he’d earned the right yet. But in her absence, he could convince himself he could satisfy his curiosity and do it without her ever knowing.

The first thing he did was run his hand along the top, savouring the feel of the warm wood under his palm. The comfort seeped into his skin and he smiled. With patient fingers, he trailed down to the first drawer, outlining and appreciating the box’s slight bevelled edges. It was a detail most craftsmen would overlook. He chuckled at the lengths men went to woo women, and blinked at how images of the wood in his basement and what he could do with it snuck up on him. Grace’s tease joined forces with his traitorous subconscious, and he clipped them back. Bending with some protestations from his knees, he kept the best for last, the one thing that piqued his curiosity the most, and it was satisfied the second he tried to pull the handle. Stuck. Just like she had said. His grin grew into a laugh, imagining her father’s impatience and ultimate dismay when he realized his error. The wood slides were clearly too tight from the get-go, but in his haste he had overlooked his mistake, the benefits of wooing Jack’s mother outweighing the oversight. If the Sloane women had anything in common, Gibbs couldn’t blame the guy.

He slapped his hands against his knees to push himself up, and to push the thought out of his mind. The rest of the office didn't hold nearly the same interest the cabinet did, though he didn't dismiss it entirely. He knew he might not get another opportunity to catalogue it, and he knew damn well she'd done the same to his basement when she thought he wasn’t looking. It was neat and orderly, not unexpected for someone with a military background. The painting on the far side of the wall made him twitch because of its crookedness, and he walked over to adjust it. He berated himself for his time-wasting.

"What am I doin' here?" he asked the empty room. Turning, he dropped into a chair, leaned back and sighed. The Rorschach print caught his eye and scrutiny tilted his head.

"Yep. Definitely a ladybug."

…..

He knew he was dreaming, because she was wearing a snug red USMC shirt that clung to her like it appreciated the honour of touching her. He didn't blame it. She was also straddling his lap. Still, he figured there was no harm in letting things play out. 

"So what _are_ you doing here, Cowboy?"

He couldn't see his hands in the foggy haze of dream, but he had a pretty good idea what he was doing right about_ there_. 

"Grace said I should come up, maybe get some ideas about the case."

"Oh, you mean like osmosis? Good word."

"That one was mine."

"Of course it was." His hands may have been hidden, but hers were out in plain sight, the back of her fingers stroking through the prickly hair around his ears. "So what kind of ideas did you come up with?" His smirk made her correct her question. "About the case, Gunny."

He frowned but answered. "Victim was killed at a party where no one liked the guy. Two hundred guests who all had a reason to kill him."

"Because they didn't like him."

"Yep." Even in a dream, her touch was soothing.

"What about the people who liked him?"

"Whattya mean?"

"I mean, the people who liked him is obviously a smaller pool than those who didn’t. Who was at the party who liked him?"

He pulled up the information from his memory. "His son. His daughter. Twins."

"Their mother?"

"Out of the country. Divorced for 12 years."

"And no current Mrs. Victim."

"No."

"Ok," she said, and he'd swear he could feel her shifting in his lap.

"Jack."

"Just let things play out the way they're going to play out. Start simple and work your way out."

He wasn't sure if she was referring to the case or to them. Was there a 'them'?

She seemed to take delight in adding to his confusion. "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, Cowboy. Sometimes, it really is as simple as that." Now he was absolutely certain she shifted.

He was about to ask her what she meant when the un-fun part of his subconscious tapped on his brain and lifted his eyelids. 

"Yeah, yeah," he said, running his fingers through his hair in a way that wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as hers. The Rorschach gazed at him again. This time he squinted, hoping to divine the print's secrets by sheer force. When nothing came to him, he stood and scowled. "Goddamn ladybug." He nabbed a red lollipop on the way out.

…..

"Whattya doin' here, Bishop?" He had come downstairs to run some background checks on the victim's kids and had promptly dozed off, alas without the subconscious benefits her office gave his slumber. 

"How do you do that?" she asked. "You can see through your eyelids, can't you?"

"Yeah."

"I knew it. And I'm here to bring you some clothes. I somehow suspected you would still be here."

"How do you do that?" he quipped, stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders protested and thanked him in equal measure. 

"Very funny." She dropped the bag in his desk. "Razor's in there, too. Unless a certain woman likes the scruffy look." His expression was stone. "What? I called you 'Dad' yesterday. Figured I might as well go all in while I was still living with that colossal error."

His expression might have been hard, but his voice was soft. "It wasn't colossal, Bishop."

She blushed under the unspoken. "Yeah, well, Torres will run with that for months."

"Tell him I know he goes for pedicures with Jack every other week."

"I knew it!"

"You seem to know a lot of things."

"Yeah, like I knew something would rattle around in that brain of yours that would give us a clue in this case. So what is it?" 

Bypassing the part about Jack and his lap, he lifted up a piece of paper and said, “Need to go back and talk to the kids.”

Though not doubting Gibbs’ thought process, she said, “We spoke to them at the crime scene.” Seeing his blank expression, she quickly added, “But we’ll speak to them again.”

“The brother’s across town so let’s get the girl first.” His planning needed revision when he saw Nick and Tim step into the office. He cocked an eyebrow at their arrival.

“Figured you’d find something, Boss,” Tim said by way of explanation.

“Look who’s Dad’s favourite,” Torres teased in Bishop’s ear. When she stared at his feet, he asked, “What?”

“Oh, just wondering what colour your toenails are this week.”

Torres quickly glanced over to Gibbs who ignored the banter by grabbing his coat and gun.

“You two comin’ or is it just me an’ Bishop?”

“We’re coming,” Tim assured him. They got to the elevator when he asked, “Uh, where are we going?”

…..

“Sit-rep, McGee.” Gibbs entered the bullpen with Bishop, where Tim and Torres had already returned.

“Ben Hawkins wasn’t home,” Torres said. “No answer at the door, no one picking up his phone.”

“I’m tracking down his movement through his financials right now,” McGee added. “But it looks like he took out his bank’s maximum ATM withdrawal amount on both days after his dad’s death.”

“Which is?”

“About a thousand dollars, total. And then I suppose whatever he had on him at the time.” Before Gibbs could ask, Tim anticipated the question. “Already checked his passport. Doesn’t have one.”

“So he’s not leaving the country,” Nick said. “What about the daughter?”

Gibbs looked at Bishop and tilted his head to encourage her answer.

“She _was_ home,” Ellie began. “But really jittery, like, I’ve never seen the literal equivalent of someone jumping out of their skin when Gibbs touched her arm.”

Tim frowned. “She did the same with me. She was understandably upset when she found out about her dad, and when I went to give her my condolences, she jumped back.”

Torres shrugged at the idea. “Maybe she just doesn’t like being touched. I know I don’t.”

“Except your feet, right, Nick?”

“Or she’s hiding something,” Tim suggested, doing his level best to keep his two younger team members on track. 

“We’ll check it out tomorrow,” Gibbs said.

The delayment of following up on a suspect took all three by surprise, but it was Tim who asked, “Boss?”

“I seem to remember tellin’ you to take the day off, and yet, here you are.”

Torres looked around. “Yeah, but you’re here, too.”

“Are you about to tell me I made a mistake in giving you time off, Torres?”

He backpedalled with a stammer. “You, make a mistake? Nah. I mean, the only mistake would be me telling you you made a mistake. Which is- I’m just going to leave now.”

Gibbs beat him to the punch by heading towards the elevator. “Bright and early tomorrow.”

The trio watched him leave and when the elevator closed, they looked at each other like they needed reassurance they weren’t the only witnesses to the unexplainable. Tim nodded with wide eyes. 

“Yeah, I saw it, too.”

“He left work early,” Bishop whispered, as if Gibbs could hear her. “While there’s still a case open.”

“You think it’s Jack?” Torres asked.

Tim shook his head. “No, she’s still in California.”

“Doesn’t matter where she is,” Nick said. “This slice of mellowness has her name written all over it. And if her and Gibbs are, you know, _close_-” He slapped his forehead when he caught himself whispering. 

“‘Close’?” Bishop repeated. “How close are we talking?”

Nick’s mouth twitched. “You know. Like Mom and Dad close.”

“You’re never going to forget that, are you?”

“Let me think about it for a second, nope.”

Tim collected his things. “I’m not going to question it. I could use the extra time with the twins. And for all we know, Gibbs feels guilty for leaving his boat alone for so long.”

“Yeah,” Nick agreed, though his voice said the opposite. “Whatever it is, I’m out. Who’s riding in the elevator with me?”

Tim and Ellie raised their hands and the bullpen was left quiet again.

…..

It might have surprised them to find he didn’t go home to his boat, but instead went to a nearby bar that was quieter than he thought it’d be, even with it being in the middle of the afternoon. He had expected a few more bodies than the 4 taking up stools, 5 minutes before the Army/Navy game, and said as much as he took up his own seat.

“You showin’ the game?”

The bartender strolled his way and showed him her smile. “Do jarheads always have the worst haircuts in the world?”

He snorted at her gall. “Mine was a real question.”

She appreciated his sense of humour with a wink. Sliding a paper coaster in front of him, she nodded. “Yep. It’s pre-game blather so I keep it down until the game starts. What can I get you?”

“Beer and whiskey chaser,” he said. “You choose.”

“Why do I get the feeling the rest of our relationship will be based on what I bring?”

He shrugged. “Life’s awfully simple, sometimes.”

“No pressure. Back in a jiff.”

His phone chirped from his pocket, but instead of a call, it was a text.

_Watching the game?_

It was the first correspondence from Jack since she had left, and he was surprised at how much it lifted the corners of his mouth.

_Don’t worry. I’ll text you the score if Army do well._

There was a brief lapse before another text came through.

_Especially if Army do well._

His grin grew into a smile and he waited to see if there was more. When the silence stretched, he began to put it in his pocket when it went off again.

_I miss you._

He stared at the phone long enough for the bartender to come back.

“And here I thought we were going to have a special relationship,” she pretended to bemoan. “Mom always said all the good ones are taken.”

His eyes glanced up and the phone found a home on the bar beside the beer bottle and shot glass. “Not sure what your Mom would think about me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve got this sort of Gary Cooper vibe she’d be all over.” He snorted before downing a good portion of the beer and chasing it with the whiskey. “But since you _are_ taken...”

“How d’you know that?”

“I’m a bartender. Kinda my job. And a man doesn’t smile like that at a text if it’s just a friend. That, and you didn’t deny it.”

Pushing the empty shot glass towards her, he said, “Remember that part about life bein’ awfully simple sometimes? Not always.” He used the beer to point to the TV before taking another pull. “Game’s on.”

…..

By halftime, he was in the warm glow of a few beers, a couple of chasers and the welcome company of the bartender who knew just how much attention to give him and when to wander away. That, and she had chosen some damn good whiskey. He had just glanced at his phone when she came back. 

"She Army?" His arched eyebrow made her laugh. "She only texts you after they score. She likes to rub it in. Good for her."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. "You Army?"

"Lieutenant," she said. "Meant to stick it out, but life had other plans." She stuck out her hand. "Carol."

He returned the handshake. "Good to meet you, Lieutenant." Seeing her silent prod, he said, "Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs." Her expression remained and the alcohol softened his edges. "Jethro."

"Oooh. We'll stick with 'Gibbs'." Ignoring his grumble at her sarcasm, she asked, "So where's your Army girl?"

"California."

"Permanently or-?"

He twisted the beer bottle by the neck, then downed the contents. "Was worried it was. Now, not so much."

She popped off another beer cap and placed it by his phone.

"Find it hard to believe your Lieutenant Army girl would leave you behind."

His eyes narrowed again. "How'd you know she was a lieutenant?"

"Your eyes did this cute little sparkly thing when I told you my rank."

"Don't you have others customers to harass?"

She glanced around at the empty bar. "Nope."

The second half kicked off and the roar from the crowd caught their attention, and they watched- one gleefully, one groaning- as the Army punt returner ran it all the way back for a touchdown. Carol tilted her head at his phone. 

"Hope your battery's charged, because this could be a very entertaining massacre."

Just as she said it, his phone buzzed.

….. 

The phone jumped so many times that, had it been anyone else pestering him, it would have found a home in a drink. But it wasn’t anyone else, it was her. And he had to admit, he was so amused by her idea of trash talk that he started secretly cheering for Army. Very secretly.

_44-13? Sounds like the coordinates where you can find Navy’s balls._

_What’s the difference between a 3 week old puppy and the Navy coach? One day, the puppy will stop whining._

_Don’t know about the rest of your team, but that Navy punter is pretty good!_

_This Navy defence couldn’t stop a nosebleed._

He started showing them to Carol, who hooted in delight. 

“Tell her when she comes back, first drink’s on me.”

“I don’t text.”

“Well, no. Not on _that_ phone.” She slid a beer between his hands. “Last one’s on me. Consider it a sympathy drink for the last 5 minutes of the game.”

_I love trash talking you, knowing you can’t text me back._

That was it. He flipped open the phone and hit speed dial. Her laugh was the first thing to greet him and it turned his annoyance into petulance. “I can text. I just choose not to.”

“Hey, Cowboy!”

Her exuberance wrapped a warmth around his lungs. “Hey, Jack.”

“Listen, remind me when I get back to get you a new TV. I wanna make sure you can see these scores.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Yeah, I am. A little funny.” He grunted his agreement, even if he wouldn’t say it out loud. “So besides your team getting _absolutely demolished_,” she stressed and stretched the last two words, “what’s been going on?”

He shrugged even though she couldn’t see it. “Workin’.”

“Not right now, are you?”

“No. Right now, I’m in a bar, gettin’ sassed by the bartender who happens to be an ex-Army lieutenant.”

The laugh rolled down the line again. “You’re not!”

“Yeah,” he drawled. “When she found out who was buzzin’ my phone like a maniac, she took it upon herself to ‘represent’, whatever the hell that means.”

“It means us Army girls stick together.”

“Well, ya got an invitation for a drink when you get back.”

“Tell her I’ll take her up on it.” There was a slight pause. “So, it sounds like everything’s okay.”

“Yeah.” His reply was short, hoping the brevity wouldn’t allow her to realize it was only a half-truth.

“You sound tired.”

He hadn’t realized his eyes had been closed the entire time. “Just workin’. Too many strings, not enough tie-offs. Sent the team home. Come at it fresh tomorrow.”

“Well you know my office is always open for you. It’s quiet and I’ve got the temperature control _just right_.”

He laughed at the emphasis, picturing her squinting her eyes and pressing her thumb and finger together. He also found humour in the fact he’d already taken her up on her offer before she extended it.

“Ya got cameras in your office, Jack?”

“No, why?”

The question was a toe over sultry and it caught him off-guard. He covered it with a pull from his beer. “Because I was in there last night.”

“Were you?” Her voice was light with surprise. “And did it help?”

Giving credit where it was due, he said, “Yeah, yeah it did.”

“And the Rorschach?”

His brows met. “You sure you don’t have cameras in that office?”

There was that laugh again. “Still a ladybug, huh?”

He knew it wasn’t really a question, so he answered with one of his own. “How’s California?”

“It’s good.” Some of the shine came off her joy. “Forgot how much I missed the ocean.”

He wondered what he needed to do to drag the Atlantic closer. “Everything okay?”

Hearing the drop in her voice made him clutch the phone tighter to his ear.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just some personal things to take care of. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

_Home._ He’d never thought how good that word could sound. “Good.” Words shuffled in his brain, some vying for escape, others too hesitant to make themselves known. He settled for, “Got used to seein’ you around, Sloane.”

Her hum cut through his deft wording. “Is that your way of saying you missed me?”

He was thankful she said it in a bright, teasing voice, because it allowed him to snap his phone shut without having to reply.

Carol had discreetly made herself scarce, but not so scarce she didn’t catch the tail end of the conversation.

“Can I give you a word of advice, Gunny?”

“You’re a bartender,” he replied. “It’s kinda what you do, isn’t it?” He reached into his pocket for his wallet and flattened a generous amount of bills on the bar.

She acknowledged his jibe with a wrinkle of her nose. “I know you said things aren’t always simple, but let me tell you something- if she comes back and sees that smile, things will get uncomplicated. Quick.”

Contemplating her words, he simply nodded and put another 10 on the pile. 

“You need me to call you a cab?”

He slid off the stool and shook his head. “Nah. Gonna go for a walk. Good talkin’ to ya, Lieutenant. I’d say ‘good game’, but-”

He could still hear her laugh as he walked out the door.

…..

By the time he scarfed down 2 ‘dogs and a bottle of water from a street cart, the 20 minute walk had cleared his head even if he was dead on his feet. Finding himself closer to NCIS than his truck, he decided to cover the last 50 yards and catch some shuteye before going home. The evening guard nodded and waved him through, accustomed to agents staying late or arriving early, none more so than Gibbs. The elevator was cool and quiet and he nearly missed the stop, lulled into the first layer of sleep by its movement. The bell dinged over his head and he stepped onto the empty floor. It was two hours past the end of the day, and there was nothing to keep him company except the quiet hum of the computers and the low light. Just the way he liked it. The carpet kept his trip to her office a secret, the door saying nothing but a gentle ‘click’ as he closed it behind him. Fall’s long shadows had already covered the room but he knew the way to her desk by heart. The small lamp welcomed his visit as did the couch 4 strides away. He dropped his long frame and sighed at the horizontal comfort. His shoes were toed off, hitting the floor with soft thuds, and he turned his head to look at the Rorschach one more time before his eyes closed. From this angle it looked different, but his curiosity couldn’t override his exhaustion.

…..

“Well that’s disappointin’,” he said.

Glancing down at her outfit, she asked, “What? This is your favourite skirt.”

“Yeah, but the shirt’s buttoned all the way to the top.”

Jack shook her head at his schoolboy response. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t flirted with the bartender so much, your subconscious wouldn’t feel like punishing you.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open in feigned shock. “Jethro Gibbs, are you _lying_ to me?”

(There are always clues in a dream that will let you know it isn’t real- out of everything in their short exchange thus far, it was the use of his first name that tipped him off. He wondered how he could make that happen when he was awake.)

His shrug was a playful surrender. “Maybe I just like women in uniform.”

She looked down again. “Oh, very good,” she praised, her office attire making way for her Army greens. “Think we can figure out a way I can make you change into your utility uniform? Or would that be a bit too ‘Inception’?” He pulled a face at the word. “You know, that dream-within-a-dream-within-a-dream movie Tim couldn’t shut up about?”

He grunted and she sat in a chair at the foot of the couch. When she rested her feet on the small space beside his hip, the skirt returned.

“I see,” was all she said, as his fingertips began to idly stroke along her Achilles, stretching up her calf as far as his touch could reach.

To no one's surprise, he wasn't apologizing. "'S my dream."

Her mouth twitched. "Well, before we get to _that_ part, tell me about the Rorschach."

"Was I just cock-blocked by my own brain?" he asked. 

"I love the new words you're picking up from Torres."

"Think that was Bishop," he admitted. 

"So, the painting?"

"What about it?"

"You looked at it right before you fell asleep, and you fell asleep right before your brain could figure out what you saw."

His head craned over his shoulder to the painting behind her desk. "Never gave it much thought, but it's just a mirror image."

She nodded in agreement. "Yes. Like when you were a kid and the teacher got you to make a butterfly by painting one side of the paper and folding it. The image on one side is twinned on the other."

"Twinned."

"Exact copies. Whatever is done to one is transferred to the other."

"Twins." He let the word ruminate until pieces began falling into place. "Thanks, Jack."

"While I appreciate the credit, it's really your subconscious figuring things out through a proxy. I just happen to be the proxy. You know none of this is real, right?"

The disappointment wrapped up in the reminder halted his fingers that had begun roaming again. Dropping his hand to the floor, he sighed, "Yeah. I know."

…..

He blinked twice to make sure he was seeing the right time- 03:10. The surprise didn’t stem from the hour but the fact that he had slept almost 8 hours straight. He couldn’t remember the last time he had such unbroken sleep. The quiet office said hello and he sighed into the semi-darkness. The dream skirted the edges of his subconscious in a way that gnawed at him.

“You sleepin’?”

The clock told her to ignore the phone, but the name on the display convinced her otherwise. “No,” she said, even if it was clearly a lie, one that he didn’t hesitate calling out.

“Liar.”

He heard her stretch, heard (or imagined) the blankets bunching and pulling down to reveal- he squinted his eyes shut to squeeze the image out of his mind.

“Not sure it’s a good idea to call someone up at midnight just to insult them.” A yawn punctuated her complaint. “Anything wrong?”

_Besides the fact I can’t stop tryin’ to figure out what the hell you wear to bed?_ “No. I just-” The quiet room, the hour and the distance conspired to break through his reserve. “Just wanted to hear your voice, I guess.” Her silence was welcomed, saving him from the embarrassment of having to explain where the hell that came from. “Seems only fair,” he said, shifting the reason away from his emotions, “since I’ve been usin’ your office and sleepin’ on your couch.”

This seemed to surprise her. “Really?”

“You suggested it, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah. But what I suggest and what you do are often two very different things.”

The office walls soaked up his laughter. 

“Wait. Are you there right now?”

He looked around. “Yep.”

“At 3 in the morning?”

“Thereabouts, yeah.”

“You really _have_ been sleeping on my couch.” Before he could take it the wrong way, she softly added, “I’m glad. So have you changed your mind about the Rorschach?”

He groaned as he sat up to look at the painting. Remembering his dream, he said, “What do you know about twins?”

The question took a moment for her to dissect. “In general, or specifically?”

“You said, ‘Whatever is done to one is transferred to the other.’ What did you mean by that?”

“Wait, go back. When did I say that?”

He realized he was referring to the dream, and found himself caught out without a way to explain it. In the midst of his hesitancy, she did it for him.

“You’ve been dreaming about me.”

“Jack,” he said, his tone low and warning.

“_Jethro_.” 

He had a hard time being angry when she at long last said his name, and he definitely couldn’t be angry when she said it like _that_, filled with laughter and promise.

“I usually don’t analyze people over the phone, but since you’re already on my couch- don’t get up!” she said, correctly anticipating his move. Figuring it was best to get back to his question, she repeated, “‘Whatever is done to one is transferred to the other.’ If we’re talking about twins, while there’s no scientific evidence to support twin telepathy, anecdotally, there are hundreds of cases where twins have shared pain, experiences and even a language between them. Why?”

“We narrowed down the list of people who liked the victim. Two of ‘em on that list are his kids- twins. A boy and a girl. We went for a second interview today but the son’s nowhere to be found. And I had an odd interaction with the daughter.”

“Odd in what way?”

He drew in a deep breath and leaned back against the couch. “This couch may not be here when you get back.”

She laughed again. “Odd in what way?”

“She went to reach for something. I reached out at the same time and touched her arm. Practically jumped out of her skin. Handed the questioning over to Bishop and didn’t seem to have a problem. Tim mentioned the same reaction in the first interview."

“You know this is just a general statement since I haven’t been able to write up a file on anyone involved, right? But my very first instinct is to say abuse by a male.”

“By the brother or the father?”

There was a rustling, and he closed his eyes, trying to imagine what she was doing. A soft, rhythmic footfall seemed to indicate she was walking barefoot across tile; a squeak that anyone familiar with raiding the fridge in the middle of the night followed. He smiled at the image of her bending to examine the contents, the light illuminating her in all the right places.

“What’re you wearin’, Sloane?” The question was out of his mouth before his brain could headslap him.

The silence lasted an eternity. The line had gone so quiet that at first, he almost thought they had lost connection until he heard her pour something into a glass. Just when he wondered how he was going to remove his size 14s from his mouth, she spoke.

“Pajama shorts with, I’m embarrassed to say, cartoon clouds on them.” Her humour and her honesty pushed away the tension, and he laughed his thanks. “White T-shirt with ‘Army’ across the front. Only because I don’t have a USMC one.” His laughter suddenly found it difficult to get past the lump in his throat. “Statistically, it would be the father,” she went on, as if she hadn’t just dropped that bomb right on his groin. “And considering he’s the victim, I’d say even better than just statistically.”

“And, uh, the brother-” He hadn’t expected the switch, hadn’t expected any of it, and his brain was punishing him by refusing to work.

“The brother likely knew or just found out,” she finished for him. “I wouldn’t say it has anything to do with them being twins, but the twin telepathy theory would only strengthen the hypothesis.”

How was she able to speak so analytically at almost 1 in the morning? In her bare feet while wearing pajama shorts with cartoon clouds and an Army T-shirt? While he sat on her couch with a promising hard-on?

“You can’t find the brother,” she went on, oblivious to his internal- and external- dilemma. “Left the country?”

He was thankful for the easy question. “No. Doesn’t have a passport.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not trying to get one. How fast can someone get a passport in this country?”

“Eight business days.”

“And the murder took place when?”

“Three days ago.”

He could almost see her nod over the phone. “So get Tim to do his computer thing and find out if he’s applied for one, and where it’s getting sent. Stake out the address, wait for however many days to pass and Bob’s your uncle.”

He chuckled. “Ever think of going into the investigative business?”

“Yeah, I looked into it, but the pay’s shit.”

“Got that right.”

Their laughs mingled and faded as the conversation wound down, and thankfully, so did things south of his belt. And yet, for a man who didn’t like to use the phone, he questioned why he was trying to find a way to keep her on it. It was only when she yawned and apologized that he came back to the moment.

“Don’t apologize. It’s 1 in the mornin’. You should get back to bed.”

“And you should go home, have a nice hot shower, then go to that diner for breakfast and suck back as much coffee as you can inhale. Wear that sky blue polo shirt. It’s my favourite.” She must have heard him choke back his disbelief because she scoffed, “What? You can ask me about my sleepwear but I can’t make suggestions about your clothes? Please.”

He knew a losing battle when he saw one. “‘Night, Jack.”

“‘Night, Jethro.”

It was a rare occasion that someone hung up on him without warning, leaving him to stare at the phone.

…..

He did everything she suggested, right down to the shirt, even if he had to push the part of his brain that teased him for letting her pick out his clothes from almost 3000 miles away. The water was hot, the bacon was crisp and the coffee was strong, and it was all exactly what he needed, barring one thing.

“Haven’t seen Jack around for a while,” Elaine said, topping up his coffee and somehow reading his mind.

He hadn’t really considered how often they had met up for breakfast here, how it had become enough of a habit that the waitress noticed when she wasn’t there.

“‘Jack’?”

She waved away his smirk. “She says friends don’t call each other by titles. _Agent_ Gibbs.”

His blue eyes met her brown. “Ya wanna call me ‘Jethro’, Elaine? She’s in California, by the way. If you’re done sweet talkin’ me.”

Her smile couldn’t be contained. “Drink your damn coffee. Gibbs.” Just as she was about to turn to leave, she winked. “You sure she’s in California? Because she’d love that shirt.”

…..

Seeing his three agents at the office before he arrived was exactly what he expected. While he assumed they had enjoyed their day off, he also knew they’d be chomping at the bit to get on with the case. They were only waiting for him to let them off the leash.

“McGee, check the DoS- see if Ben Hawkins has applied for a passport in the last couple of days. Bishop, see if there’s any medical history on Rebecca Hawkins, I don’t care if it’s a hangnail or a broken bone.”

“From what ages?”

He dropped into his swivel chair. “All of them.”

She knew not to ask what he was looking for; she’d know what it was when she found it.

“Torres, out of that list of guests, narrow it down to the people who said they’ve known the family for more than 10 years. If it’s more than a dozen, give me the rest. You got the mother’s contact number?”

“Yep,” he said, scribbling it on a scrap of paper and delivering it to his desk. “She’s in England, so don’t forget to do whatever you have to do to get the call through.” He heard Bishop’s soft snort. “You know, 0 something something 4 something, I don’t know. Do I look like a phone operator?”

“Zero one one four four, got it, Torres.” Gibbs snatched the paper out of his hand.

“When I get this list, what do I do with it?”

“Call ‘em. Find out if there are any skeletons in the closet. Rumours. Gossip. Shake the cage.”

Torres gave a firm nod. “You got it.”

…..

Two hours into the task and Nick placed the phone on the receiver and sat back in his chair. Though his head was tilted towards the ceiling, his eyes were closed. It seemed to take him a moment to gather his thoughts.

“I don’t like where this is going,” he said at last. The three waited for him to say more, each of them having their own piece to the puzzle Nick was putting together in his head. He inhaled and exhaled deeply before righting his chair. “Out of the 8 people who had been friends of the family for more than a decade, 5 of them were willing to say they thought there was something ‘odd’ going on between Edward Hawkins and his daughter. Two of them were willing to go all out and say they suspected-” He paused to find the word that would set him off the least. “Abuse.”

“Fits in with what I’ve found so far,” Bishop chimed in. “While I couldn’t get permission to access her medical files, I did do a run around and got her prescriptions history. She was on birth control at 13.”

Gibbs forced his mind to set aside what that might mean. “Mother said she hasn’t been allowed to see the kids since the divorce.”

“No one thinks it’s strange the mother didn’t get the kids?” Tim asked.

“Part of the divorce settlement,” Gibbs said. “Didn’t say more than that- NDA.”

Bishop frowned. “What in the world could be in the non-disclosure that would stop a mother from getting custody of her own kids?”

Shrugging, Tim said, “Money can get you anything."

“Like free access to your daughter.” Nick’s face darkened at the idea.

"Being a captain in the Navy probably didn't hurt," Bishop added.

Gibbs clenched his jaw but reigned in his anger. “Let’s just work on what we got. Hawkins is dead. We got a pretty good reason why. Have you tracked down the son?”

Tim nodded. “You were right about the passport, Boss. Ben Hawkins applied for one the day after the murder. Address is to a P.O Box in Falls Church.”

“No sighting of him?”

“No. But I gave the Falls Church LEOs a head’s up on the suspect and asked them to keep an eye on the box.”

Nick said what everyone was thinking. “I hate waiting.”

Tossing his glasses on his desk and standing, Gibbs said, “Find somethin’ to do in the meantime.” 

Nick looked between Tim and Bishop before looking at Gibbs. “Where are you going?”

“To find somethin’ to do,” he said, his expression chastising the agent for asking something so obvious.

“Right.” As Gibbs jogged up the stairs, Nick called out, “Lemme know if you find anything.”

…..

What he found was Jack’s office, quiet and cool, though the comfort it offered at night seemed to be missing. Maybe it was the morning light that touched every corner, reminding him the office was empty, when the evening shadows could trick him into thinking she was just on the peripheral. He wasn’t even sure why he was there; the case was moving and in all likelihood, they’d have their suspect in custody by the end of the week. So why did he feel the need to 'touch base' to an empty room?

The couch tempted him with its now familiar comfort, but he chose the chair across hers, the one that gave him the best view of the Rorscach. The light didn't seem to change his interpretation, and there was a part of him that found the ambiguity of the test frustrating.

"Fifty-three percent of people think it's a butterfly, so don't be disappointed."

He only caught half of what she said, the rest swallowed up by his surprise.

"Jack."

"That's me."

She looked tired, the smile not quite reaching her eyes, her eyes not quite sparking the way he had grown accustomed. He stood, but found himself in No Man's Land, stuck between wanting to offer comfort he didn't know he had the right to give and being his usual aloof self. She saved him- as usual- by turning to the painting.

"There are 10 inkblots in the test; maybe I need to get you a different one." 

"Ladybug, butterfly, butterfly, ladybug-" He lifted a finger for every guess, and was pleased to see the smile get brighter. His gaze followed hers to the wall. "What do _you_ see?"

Her mouth opened in feigned shock. "You're not supposed to ask the doctor!" He grinned at her response. Her eyes flicked over the test. "I see symmetry in a world that's not perfect," she said, her voice quiet in its contemplation. "I find that very comforting." The sadness hung in the air until he reached for her hand. "How's the case?" 

He didn't question the change in topic. "Father abused his daughter for god knows how long. Son found out, killed the father. Waitin' for him to pick up his passport. You called it."

She turned his hand in hers and squeezed. "Two lives ruined."

There was nothing to do but shrug at the waste of it all. He wanted to ask her about California, but there were enough cues in her body language to know to leave it up to her.

Instead, he said, "Good to have you back."

"I'm not staying." He was sure his heart stopped. His hand began to pull away but she held it firm. "I have to go back tonight. To finish a few things up."

The fact she was there, standing in front of him didn't mesh with what she just said, and she must've seen it on his face, because she pushed her mouth to the side and shrugged. 

"I guess I just wanted to see you." A nervous laugh stuttered behind her confession. She looked down at her feet and closed her eyes. "I got a call from a good friend that his dad didn't have much time. He was like a second father to me, the 1st person I called after… Afghanistan." 

Her breath was deep and long and he couldn't help but squeeze her hand and lean closer. Her free hand came up to curl around his forearm. "When I got there… he didn't even know who I was. Stage 6 Alzheimer's." She inhaled deeply again. "Anyway…" When her hand reached up to wipe an errant tear, his hand beat her to it. 

His response was immediate- "What do you need me to do?"

It was so him that she couldn't help but give a small laugh. "Just stand here." 

His eyebrows met at the simple request. "Pretty sure I can do more'n that." 

By the time he finished his sentence, he had his arms around her, tucked her in tight. Her hands had instinctively gone up between them, as if to protect herself, but she was quickly overruled by reason. She knew he’d never willingly hurt her, and if he allowed the proximity, she’d take it, when all she wanted to do was curl around his edges and fill his recesses. His arms only held her tighter, a silent partner in her quest to get closer.

“This is nice,” she whispered against his shoulder, sturdy and broad under her cheek. 

The shoulder lightly jerked from his chuckle, and just like that, the heaviness of the moment dissipated. She pulled back and brought her hands to his collar. Still not quite able to look into his eyes, she settled on his mouth.

“Thank you.”

She saw the frown form. “For what?”

“For this,” she said, hoping it explained everything. “It was exactly what I needed.”

“You just gotta ask, Jack.”

She wondered if he meant it literally, because there was so much she wanted but didn’t know how to say. Perhaps he felt the same, because instead of speaking, his mouth lowered to hers, his lips hovering so close, she could feel his breath. Just when she was about to bridge the gap, her head overrode her heart. 

“Wait,” she asked, her fingers coming up from his collar to touch his lips. She summoned strength from God knows where to look him in the eye. “I don’t want this to be our first kiss. I don’t want these memories attached to it.”

He nodded and marvelled at her ability to balance reason and feeling, because logic left his head the minute she was in his arms. The upside was, so did his doubt.

“What memories do you want attached to it?”

His smirk brought levity to the moment, and she loved him for it. 

“I want memories of a nice Italian restaurant. Of you dancing with me after bitching and moaning that you don’t dance.” His smirk spread into a grin. “Of a nice bottle of wine and of a gentleman walking me to my door.”

“Is the gentleman coming in?”

Her finger touched his lips again. “Depends how much bitching he does about the dancing.” She traced his smile and flashed one of her own.

He was about to open his mouth when his phone rang. Pinning her with a look, he reached for the cell and barked, “Yeah?”

“Boss, the Falls Church LEOs just called; they pulled Ben Hawkins in for questioning.”

“So what are you doin’ here?”

There was a pause. “I, uh, thought you’d want to do the honours?”

“Go. Take Bishop with you.”

There was enough hesitancy in Tim’s reply to make Gibbs wonder if he was going to question the order, but years of experience had taught the agent well. “And Torres?”

“Has he found somethin’ to do yet?”

McGee kept his chuckle low. “He’s catching up on his expense reports. I’ve never felt sorry for a stapler until now.”

“Let me know when you get back.”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

He snapped the phone shut and dropped it into his pocket. “What time is your flight?”

“Six fifteen.”

“So you got time for lunch?”

“With you? Always.”

“I know a great burger place in Georgetown.”

"I love it already.”

He brought his hands to her face, and while he would respect her wishes, he couldn’t resist resting his lips against her forehead. “Italian when you get back.”

“The end of the week,” she said, answering his unspoken question. She felt him nod.

“Gives me time to dig out my dancin’ shoes.”

“I can’t wait.” Her reply was a mixture of mirth and seriousness, and though he didn’t say it out loud, he found he absolutely agreed.

…..

She didn’t accept a ride to the airport, saying she hated the goodbyes, but he promised her he’d pick her up because she loved the hellos. Tim had handled Ben Hawkins’ interrogation, though it was less of a line of questioning and more of a listening session, as the young man blurted out everything they suspected. McGee came out of the room, his face stone and tight, and Gibbs had sent everyone home early. He was heading there himself, but he had one last stop.

Before saying goodbye at the burger joint, Jack had leaned up and whispered something in his ear, kissed his cheek and walked backwards away from him. It wasn’t until the bewitching feel of her body was far enough away to lift the hazy cloud over his brain that he deciphered what she had said. She acknowledged the sudden realization with a wink and a wave.

…..

He had been in her office more times over the last 3 days than he’d been the entire time since she’d blown into his life. This particular stop was going to be a short one, however. The whispered words piqued a curiosity that would not be denied, and he made it from the elevator to her office in long, easy strides. The quiet room greeted him in a way it hadn’t before that morning, before the landscape changed in their relationship and suddenly he saw the horizon. 

He also saw the chair in the corner, discreet and slightly out of the way, a piece of furniture he may have glanced at once or twice but never paid much attention to it. Knowing now what he knew, it got all of his attention, and he grinned at its secrets. Pulling it forward, he discovered the hidden door, a small thing no bigger than a foot wide and maybe two feet high. The chair covered it perfectly, and he grinned at her cleverness. It took nothing more than a light tug to open it, and there it was, just as she said. He took out the clear bottle, coloured amber by its contents, and held it up to the light. It was the same bourbon Grace had given him six months ago and had finished off in three. Jack said it was an incentive for him to find his dancing shoes, and not for the first time, he considered giving her everything she asked him for.

He dropped it in his jacket pocket, and just as he was about to close the door, he saw it- a cylinder tube that just fit the small space, wedged in diagonally. But it was the small label taped to it that had caught his eye.

_Gibbs_

Twisting it just so, he was able to pull the tube from its hiding spot. He put everything back in its place before sitting on the chair that guarded her hidden treasure. The label was folded, and he read the short note on the inside.

_I hope it gives you symmetry in your life._

_ Love, J_

The plastic end was carefully pried open and he slipped the rolled paper out from the tube. It was a Rorschach print, smaller, but not unlike her own. His grin grew into a smile that spread into a laugh. He knew exactly where he was going to put it.

…..

-end


End file.
